


Post-Mortem

by asuralucier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Acceptance, Canon Typical Parental Angst, Discussion of Wartime Trauma and PTSD, Domestic Fluff, EWE, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fresh Starts, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Magical Medical Jargon, Pre-Slash, Therapy, protective!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 16:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16936326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Due to a sudden onset of a magical allergy, Draco Malfoy finds himself unable to practice magic. Harry Potter, who has abandoned his career as an Auror and training to be a Mediwizard, is assigned to his case.





	Post-Mortem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spinning_yarns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinning_yarns/gifts).



> Many thanks to @Prinzenhasserin for the beta!

The first thing Draco Malfoy noticed when he regained consciousness was that he was in unceasing, agonizing pain. 

At first, he tried to ignore the pain, which concentrated nearly everywhere in his body, but the part that hurt the most was the pounding in his head, as if his heartbeat had suddenly moved up there and left his chest empty and hollow. He tried to think about all the other times he’d been in pain. Quidditch accidents, the countless times that he’d been hit by a curse that flamed up his insides -- but this was a new, fresh, pain and announced itself quite loudly and severely in Draco’s veins. 

“Steady, Potter, steady.” A voice said above him. 

Draco was allergic to the name Potter, although this was an unconscious allergy that he hadn’t thought about in years. He reacted accordingly and the pain clamped down even harder in his bones. 

“ ...steady, and -- done.” 

And then suddenly the pain left his body, as sudden as it’d come before. Draco tried to speak, but whatever they had done to him must have included some form of sleeping charm, or potion, though Draco racked his sleep-addled brain and couldn’t remember being given anything to drink or eat upon his arrival at St. Mungo’s. Though that too, was a blur. He vaguely remembered an Auror coming to the manor, them making small talk, and then. 

Another voice, floating somewhere above him, this time nearly familiar: “Don’t fight it, Malfoy. Just go to sleep.”

And so Draco did. 

 

A man who looked remarkably like Harry Potter was there when Draco woke up. When he woke up, he felt better, although his head was clouded, like he was still making his way through thick London fog. 

“Hello,” said Potter. He was wearing a lime green robe that made his skin seem gaunt and nearly transparent. “How are you feeling?” 

Draco tried to speak. A strange croaking sound came out instead of words and Potter got up to pour him a glass of water. He handed the glass to Draco, and then returned to his seat a respectful distance from the bed. 

“...Fine. I guess. What happened?” 

Potter nodded at this and noted something on a piece of parchment. “Any dizziness? That’s normal. I just need to know.” 

“Some,” Draco admitted. “And confusion. Why are you here? What happened to the Auror who came to visit me at home?” 

“Aldous flooed you here when you fainted. He’s outside. You’ll probably have to speak to him in a minute, but for now, please take your time.” 

Something felt different. Draco flexed his fingers and couldn’t tell what. He then flexed his toes and thought the same. “...Potter, right?” 

“Yes,” said Potter.

“Why -- why are you here?” 

“I work here,” said Potter without pretense. He lifted one shoulder, “I’ve quit the Ministry.” 

“Oh,” said Draco. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with me?” 

Potter went quiet. He looked from his parchment to Draco and then back again. Now that he had a bit more time, Draco noted that Potter wasn’t wearing glasses and that his dark fringe was worn in a way that appeared to obscure his scar. These were all steps carefully taken to erase in Potter any semblance of The Boy Who Lived, and yet Draco knew him without a second thought. He doubted himself, but then that doubt didn’t really seem real. It only seemed like a phantom of a thought that left as soon as it’d entered his head, as if it had known that it was out of place. 

“...Potter? He awake?” 

Draco whipped his gaze away from Potter to an elderly Healer with flecks of gray in his beard. His gait was no-nonsense and reminded Draco severely of his father, which was not a good thing. 

Potter stood immediately and cleared his throat. Draco thought back to Hogwarts, even though he usually tried not to. Potter’s sudden shift in posture was something familiar though, something that Draco would have thought obsequious, but now that expectation so fulfilled, was turning everything strange. 

“Erm, Malfoy, this is Healer Brockhurst. He’s actually the one in charge of your...stay here. ” Potter didn’t look at Draco. To Brockhurst, Potter said, “...He’d just woken up. I thought I’d -- give him a minute to. I guess, acclimate.” 

“Tell me what is _wrong_ with me, Potter.” The relief over his lack of pain seemed entirely short-lived, and Draco now felt a rush of anxiety speeding to take over where the pain had been. 

Potter still didn’t look at him. 

Brockhurst said, meaningfully taking the tone of a man who was speaking with authority, which mostly meant he was speaking to an empty room without people in it, “Potter, you can see that the patient is agitated. Sometimes, giving him time to acclimate isn’t as important as giving him the information he wants -- and, is entitled to. Well? Go on.” 

Potter cleared his throat, “Well erm. I. Okay. Malfoy, do you know what an allergy is?” 

Draco huffed, but his indignance merely seemed to highlight how airless this room was and how _strange_ all of this… 

After a moment, Draco deflated, “Of course I do.” 

“Sorry,” said Potter. “That was more for me. I didn’t know if wizards used the same kind of terminology that muggles --” 

“ _Potter_ ,” Brockhurst cut in. 

Potter sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Malfoy, you’ve got an allergy to magic. We had to uh, temporarily remove magic from your person. The spell will wear off, but then we’ll have to think about and discuss ways to manage your allergy after, depending on how you get on. For now, we would encourage you to spend another night here so we can monitor your condition. And then tomorrow, we’ll have to talk about where you’re going to stay while you’re still weaning the last of the magic out of your system.” 

Draco stared at him, “What do you mean, where I’m going to stay? I’d just go home. Assuming you let me. Assuming that Auror Aldous out there will let me and not sleep outside on my doorstep.” 

The War was long over. But the reality of its aftermath was never far from Draco’s mind or his everyday life. The Malfoy Manor had been seized by the Ministry as part of a wide effort to dole out blame on the whole debacle. That was what they’d called the War afterwards, a _debacle_. A right debacle that had turned the world upside down; stolen the lives of some of the brightest minds to have ever graced Wizarding Britain and someone had to be responsible. Seizing the Manor had been mostly symbolic and within a year or two, the keys and the wards had returned to Draco Malfoy, its rightful owner without pretense. An Auror visited him every Thursday and Draco always offered the Auror a cup of tea. Aldous had declined, on this occasion. 

Still, Draco felt an odd distance now from the house in which he’d grown up. The Manor had always seemed large, but it’d never seemed empty and although he’d grown used to it enough -- even going as far as to admit that he liked it sometimes because quiet was something Draco never really got growing up. There was quiet, but the quiet always seemed to give way to silence that seemed to chain Draco to the Manor. Draco grew up around silence and it was always a weighted absence rather than quiet. 

“Well,” Potter said. “You’ve got an allergy. The Manor has wards, doesn’t it?” 

Draco gave him a look, “It does, yes.”

“Then you can’t go there. It might make you ill again, and I’d advise against it.” 

“I am in a _magical_ hospital,” Draco reminded him in case he was daft. “I feel well enough right now.”

“Yes, but you’re in a ward that specifically…” Potter trailed off and looked to Brockhurst. 

Brockhurst returned Potter’s look with a skeptical one of his own and stepped into the fray, “Mr. Malfoy, I’m afraid I’ll have to second Healer Potter’s advice. It would be unwise for you to return home at this time.” 

“Then where do you suggest I go, exactly?” Draco gritted his teeth. “It’s not like I’ve got muggle hideaways up my sleeve. I don’t even --” _have any friends_ was something that nearly left his mouth, but he caught the admission just in time. It wasn’t a sad thing particularly, or a thing of note, but Potter likely would take that sort of thing as a sign of Gryffindor cruelty rather than simple Slytherin practicality. It seemed better, either way, to say nothing. 

“We can think about that tomorrow,” said Potter. “I’ll speak to a few people. They might be able to put you up for a few days. But, but it’s not something you have to worry about now. Do you understand me, Malfoy?” 

“Yeah. Yes,” Draco said. He leaned back into over-fluffed pillows that at the same time seemed flat and inadequate. He closed his eyes. 

 

For the last three years, Harry Potter lived at Number Four Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey. 

He lived in the second bedroom upstairs and left the other bedrooms untouched except to subject them to a weekly hoover at the weekend. One year, he’d bought a new boiler and a secondhand sofa with a floral print because he’d suddenly been struck by the laughable amount of beige in the room. Vernon and Petunia Dudley had retired early to the Maldives upon selling Vernon’s drill business; and in a gesture that made nearly no sense but could be explained by emphasizing the complexity of familial obligation, his aunt had asked Harry if he’d wanted the house. Without thinking much about it, Harry had agreed. 

At the moment, Harry wasn’t living the life that he’d dreamed of. In fact, it was almost laughable to him, that a person, wizard or muggle, could conceivably dream of a life. He was nearly thirty and yes, maybe his impending birthday in a few months was the cause of most of the choices that had upended his life recently. 

Harry hadn’t even been sure that he’d really do it, on the rare spring day near the end of March. Instead, he’d loitered outside Prime Minister Shacklebolt’s office until time ran out and he’d only quit because panic had set in. Harry regretted his resignation the moment he’d left the building, but the idea of walking back on his resignation after agonizing over it being an awful idea seemed worse than anything he could bear. 

And so he hadn’t. Life went on, with Harry just a bit worse for wear. At first, it surprised him, and then it didn’t. 

“ -- Harry, mate. That is _mental_ ,” Ron widened his eyes. “It’s _Malfoy_. It’s _Privet Drive_. It’s _mental_.” 

Bad ideas seemed to come to Harry when he was short on sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up not exhausted and stretching for an extra five minutes. But for what it was worth, his stint at St. Mungos’, which started at half six in the morning and didn’t end until eight in the evening each day save Sundays and possibly Christmas, meant Harry didn’t have time to think. What time he had, was devoted to memorizing the ingredients of Skele-Gro potion and the like. The last time he’d done the list in his head (and out loud, with Hermione in attendance), Harry had tapped out at twenty-two ingredients, only to have her helpfully remind him of the three he’d missed. 

“Harry,” Hermione frowned. “Not to agree with Ron too much…” 

“Hey,” Ron tapped his wife sharply on the elbow. 

Hermione sighed, “I agree with Ron. I don’t think it’s mental, much, but I also don’t think it’s not the smartest thing that you could be doing.” 

Nowadays, it was impossible to ignore the fact that Ron and Hermione were married. Sometimes, Harry blinked and missed the glint of their silver wedding rings, but currently Hermione was expecting. If Harry managed to miss the fact that she was drinking alcohol-free butterbeer, he couldn’t treat her growing belly with the same select blindness. He was happy for them, of course he was. 

“...Don’t you have protocols for this sort of thing?” Hermione pressed. “You know, a protocol that doesn’t involve bringing a patient home with you. Some would call it professionalism. A hospital isn’t a petshop.” 

In the past year, there’d been an unexpected uptick in magical allergies. In the milder cases, wands caused their users to grow a rash following the casting of certain spells; in some of the more severe cases, such as Malfoy’s, the patient fainted without warning while inside their warded homes. Healer Brockhurst had pronounced this development unusual, but not unmanageable. In most cases, patients were released from hospital to be looked after by family or friends. It was an arduous task for all involved as the patient was contained in a magical vacuum subject to daily upkeep and carefully kept away from any magical artefacts in the house, if any. 

“I know that. I’ve looked at Malfoy’s file. Safe to say, we don’t really have anyone to release him to.” Harry sighed. “Do you know what they do with patients who can’t be released in to someone’s custody? They go into into the care of the Ministry of Ongoing Maladies. Aside from having the worst acronym of the lot, it’s basically death! Not to mention Malfoy is still a person of interest, so they’ll likely just --” 

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted. “We’re not doubting St. Mungo’s capacity to treat these patients, and we’re also not --” here, she paused to stare Ron into submission before she continued, “ -- we’re _not_ here to pass judgement on what you might decide to do. But Harry, this was the kind of thing that got you into trouble in the first place. As your friend, can’t I worry about you?” 

“I’m overworked,” said Harry. “Like everyone else.” 

Hermione stared at him some more. There was a wilting power to her stare, and Harry felt his blood veins constricting accordingly, “...Before you say anything, it’s got nothing to do with that.” 

“That,” Hermione echoed. “All right then. Come for dinner this weekend. I’ll roast a chicken.” 

“I’ve got something on this weekend,” Harry hedged. “Sorry.” 

 

Where Harry went home alone to Number Four Privet Drive, Ron and Hermione disappeared off back home to 12 Grimmauld Place. He’d sold it to them for one galleon as a gesture and in return, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought himself a pint. Ron was developing a thing for Harry’s local, the Pennyfarthing Microbrewery, and perhaps also an unhealthy obsession with the shape of the twenty pence coin. 

On Sunday evening, Harry went to bed after downing a large gulp of vodka from his fridge. 

 

Malfoy was awake and reading a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Some color seemed to have made its way back into the man’s cheeks although it was difficult to tell.

“Potter, I’d like to go home,” he said. 

“Well, you can’t.” Harry said. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to release you to the care of the Ministry for Ongoing Maladies. It says in your file that you live alone.” 

“I’ve also got Aurors up my arse,” Malfoy returned drily. “Sure they’ll be thrilled to check on me more often.” 

“It doesn’t work like that.” 

Malfoy turned his gaze back to the paper and didn’t say anything. 

“...Or you can come home with me,” said Harry, before he could think himself out of offering. “I live in a muggle flat, which means we can skip performing the spell daily and I won’t have to keep an eye on you all the time. It’s also in Surrey, so I promise it won’t be an embarrassment to you.” 

Malfoy flinched, “Why do you live in a muggle flat?” 

“My aunt wanted to keep it in the family. I didn’t ask too many questions. -- And before you ask, yes. It’s that aunt who kept me in a cupboard.” 

Malfoy looked at him, “Does this happen a lot?” 

“We’ve been seeing more and more allergies lately,” said Harry. “Yours was sudden onset and acute, but it’s not uncommon, now.” 

“I meant,” said Malfoy, “Do you offer to have people come home with you. Does that happen a lot?” 

“No,” Harry admitted. “It’s the first time I’ve ever offered. I usually don’t have to. Most of our patients have some semblance of a support network, that is, people to look after them.”

“You didn’t have to offer,” said Malfoy. 

“No,” Harry said. “I didn’t.” 

 

Part of Draco wanted to ask after the specifics of why Potter, of all people, was offering him a place to stay in lieu of subjecting him to the mercy of the Ministry for Ongoing Maladies. It was an arm of the Ministry that Draco had certainly never heard of, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

And besides, he was apparently living in a world where Harry Potter lived in a muggle flat in Surrey, having given up his career as an Auror. 

“...I could pay you,” said Draco, if only to bring some familiarity back into the conversation. The Malfoy vaults were not what they once were, but Draco lived a simple enough life. He wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t poor, either. If nothing else, he could afford not to take charity from Potter. 

“What, like rent?” Potter blinked. 

“...That, you don't have to say it as if something abnormal,” Draco agreed. “Or, I don’t know. For --” he had to swallow, “for looking after me. I’m sure without the wards, I’d still need...help.” 

Potter’s mouth twitched, “This might be a bit of a funny question, like.” 

“I’m still getting over the idea of you in a muggle flat, but go on.” 

“Do you cook?” 

Draco stared. 

“What?” Potter stared back, “It’s a question. And I said it was funny.” 

Draco laughed, despite himself. He sank back into his airless pillow and stared up at the lights. Their brightness seemed alien and strange and he had to close his eyes. “I cook well enough. Had to learn, after all the House Elves went on strike.” 

“Then you can cook me dinner when I get back from work,” said Potter. “I’m sick of using the microwave.”

“...The what?” 

 

“Number Four Privet Drive,” Auror Lorca Aldous was in his early forties and sported a shiny, trim ginger beard. He had a habit of twisting the bright red hair around his fingers and maybe Harry and Malfoy couldn’t help but stare and when the man looked up, they both looked away. Aldous cleared his throat, “...Can’t say I know it.” 

“It’s in Surrey,” said Harry, mindful that Malfoy was listening to every word and yes, maybe his tone wasn’t the nicest because this was something he said a lot. “It doesn’t have any wards. At least, ones that would matter, for this.” 

“I guess that’s fine,” said Aldous. “But are you -- sure about this, Potter. I mean, he’s.” 

“Ill,” said Harry with as much backbone as he could manage for the moment, “Not a threat. Can’t even use his wand. Is in this room. Should I keep going?” 

“I was just saying,” Aldous didn’t flinch, much. 

“Well, you’ve said.” Harry said, eager to capitalize on Aldous’ discomfort. It was something he’d always disliked about being an Auror, interrogation. He wasn’t much good at it and no amount of review would have changed that as fact. “Don’t you dare show up at my house.” He stood up so suddenly that he nearly knocked back his chair. “Come on, Malfoy, we’re going.” 

 

Potter strode so quickly out of Aldous’ office and then the foreboding Ministry building that Draco almost struggled to catch up, he was taller of the two, but Potter was oddly quick on his feet and maybe that was also thanks to his Auror training. 

“Potter, wait up!”

The man turned and the frown that was on his face smoothed out into something more neutral, “...Sorry. It’s just. I’ve never liked him. We’d never worked well together.” 

Draco felt compelled to press the issue, “... _We’d_ never liked each other.” 

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, but Draco thought it was worth mentioning, before their lives got any more stranger. The strange difference with which Potter treated him was making every other oddity in his life seem secondary. Potter gave him a look that made Draco wish he hadn’t asked, and then he fit his hands neatly in the pockets of his robes and looked down at the pavement.

“...What about my wand?” 

“It’s customary that the hospital keep it to run some tests,” said Potter. “Precaution. If all goes well, I’ll return your wand to you next week.”

“You mean it’s not going to be confiscated?” 

Potter gave him another look, “I’m sure the Ministry would like that. Have you been hexing in the basement?” 

“What, people actually do that?” 

Potter lifted one shoulder, “More than you would think. It’s actually one of the more interesting parts of my job. Former job.”

Draco said, “Oh.” 

Potter held out a hand towards him, “Come on, we’ll Apparate back to Privet Drive and let you settle in. You’ll probably get quite sick, but --” 

 

Draco Malfoy was in unceasing, agonizing pain. They’d landed in the middle of a nice enough sitting room, although the room could have wanted for some color. There was a floral printed sofa, over-stuffed and vintage. The sort of thing his mother might have had a soft spot for when she’d been happier. 

“Where’s your --”

“Down the hall. First door on the right.” 

Draco felt Potter’s wand tapping him neatly between his shoulder blades as he knelt and hurled into the toilet. He tasted something not unlike copper in his mouth. 

“ _Secundo Curio_!” 

The pain that was seizing his insides almost instantly evaporated and Draco found himself leaning back against Potter’s knees. 

“All right?”

Draco glanced up at the man, “I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

Potter stepped back very neatly and reached to flush the toilet, “Inasmuch as anyone could be. I’ll give you a minute.” 

 

Harry went upstairs to the master bedroom, where there was still a bed with a functional enough mattress and he went to the closet to fetch some sheets. He chose beige, a certainly muted and all around inoffensive color and threw it over the bed. 

“...You’ve sold this place short,” said Malfoy’s voice somewhere behind him. 

“Yeah?” Harry didn’t bother turning around. 

“Yeah. You said a muggle flat. Which...I don’t know. I thought it’d be sadder. Less.” 

“It was sadder, less. Once. Then I got bored and did some decorating,” Harry’s notion of decorating was buying a few potted plants (including a cactus just to be different) and of course, the couch and maybe replacing some of Petunia’s crockery. Vernon’s talent in the kitchen was very limited to mixed grill after two pints of beer. 

“Where’d you get this from?” 

Harry followed Malfoy’s gaze to a framed photo hanging opposite the bed. It wasn’t an eye-catching affair by any means, the frame was washed bronze and the photograph boasted a seafront view with the water so clear that the wisps of clouds above were perfectly reflected, as if the water was a mirror freshly scrubbed clean. It seemed to him almost strange that of all the things that Malfoy would pick up on in this room was the photo. As if he had an inbuilt sense to naturally notice things Harry wasn't terribly keen to point out to him. 

“Oh, that,” something like embarrassment coiled in Harry’s stomach. “It’s a lake in Germany, Müggelsee. Kind of a hot tourist destination. It’s got unrivaled cycling. If you’re into that sort of thing.” Part of Harry wondered if Malfoy was going to ask him what cycling was. If there was anything that Harry disliked about the Wizarding World was that Quidditch seemed to be the only sport. Ron would have argued that there was, of course, chess, but that hardly counted. 

“That’s --” Malfoy’s lips curled up into an almost familiar sneer. “One way to describe a holiday, I suppose.” 

“I’ve never been,” Harry said. “I put it up because it seemed like a nice picture. That’s not a crime, is it?” 

“No,” Malfoy said. “I’ve never been, either. Looks nice.” 

Harry busied himself with smoothing the last corner of the sheet, “It’d be crawling with muggles, on any good day. Doubt it’d be your scene. Anyway. This is you. My bedroom’s down the hall. If you’d like to write me a list of things to fetch from the Manor, I can do that for you later.” 

Malfoy stepped closer to the bed and smoothed a hand over the fitted sheet. “...It will be just you?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Just you, in the Manor. I’d rather not have…” 

“Sure, just me.” said Harry. He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but in the moment, it’d seemed like the kinder thing to do.

 

Harry had been to the Malfoy Manor once or twice before in his capacity as an Auror. The manor had been under Ministry control then, and the Head Auror, an unimaginative lizard of a man named Sycamore had been obsessed with the place being haunted, trapped, or both. So excursions had been made into the house with an eye towards those things and they’d come out empty-handed.

Upon stepping out of the fireplace and dusting himself off, Harry could see the Manor hadn’t much changed. Portraits of dead Malfoys sneered neatly at him from the walls, but their expressions, before accruing malice, seemed bored. 

“I’ve seen you before,” said one of the portraits. “You better not have come here to steal anything.” 

“This house has nothing in it that I would want,” said Harry. “Could you point me to Malfoy’s room?” 

“Upstairs,” said another. This one was a young woman, whose neck seemed unduly lengthened by a high collar. “The study at the end of the hall. He doesn’t sleep in a bedroom anymore.” 

 

There was a neat little pop that announced Potter’s presence and Draco stepped back from the curious, prickly plant that sat neatly next to Potter’s muggle knives in the kitchen. Potter strolled in, with a rucksack thrown over one shoulder. It took a moment for Draco to recognize the rucksack as his, but couldn’t remembered the last time he’d made use of it. 

“...What’s this?” 

“It’s called a cactus,” said Potter. “If you want specifics, it’s _Opuntia microdasys_. Bunny Ears cactus. I have your stuff.”

Potter held up the bag and Draco felt himself flinch. He was waiting for the pain. For whatever reason, he thought expecting it to materialize again would make it somehow more bearable. 

“All right?” 

Draco took the bag from him and peered inside. “I was expecting it to hurt, somehow.” 

“You should tell me if it does,” said Potter. “But the spell should last several hours. I think I got everything.” 

“Looks like it.” 

 

On Thursday, Harry met Ron at the Pennyfarthing, where Ron asked for a pint of the Salted Caramel Porter and Malfoy looked insulted. 

Ron drank his porter noisily and wiped his mouth, “...How long have you been staying at Privet Drive, now?” 

“A week. Just about,” said Malfoy. He was sipping a glass of house white and continuing to look offended. Maybe this was a bad idea. 

“And...how are you feeling?” 

“Fine,” said Malfoy. “I guess.” 

“Ron, stop it.” Harry said, “Please.” 

“I just _asked_ how he was doing,” said Ron peevishly over the rim of his glass. “Should I not have?” 

The bloke who ran the Pennyfarthing was a no-nonsense muggle whose family hailed from Kent and beer ran as thick in the family as blood. He also had a keen eye for knowing when trouble was just about to start brewing and now fixed Harry with a knowing glance. Harry looked back and shook his head with his chin pointed upwards. 

“Anyway,” Ron gulped loudly and slammed his empty glass down again on the table. “I’ve got to get going. Mione has a thing. -- Of course you,” he zeroed in pointedly at Harry, “are invited. It’s a muggle thing. A baby shower?” 

“Pass,” said Harry. “Blokes aren’t technically allowed.” 

“She didn’t tell me that,” Ron said. 

“Probably because she wants you there. But you’re obligated, mate,” said Harry. “Go. All right? I send my love, _et cetera_.” 

Ron fixed Harry with another gaze that made his stomach tighten and wait for pain. Maybe Malfoy was on to something when he said that the pain was more bearable when you knew to wait for it. 

“Will you please come over for dinner this weekend?” Ron said. “Bring Malfoy if you have to.” 

“I’ll think about it,” said Harry. 

 

Draco had never liked Ron Weasley. Less because he was a Weasley and more because. Something else. 

“Do you want another?” Potter said after Weasley finally left. “I could do with another.” 

Being muggle-drunk was not the same as having muddled magic stop up your veins. The feeling was lighter somehow, and Draco felt himself smiling despite all shades of not wanting to. “Sure, what else have you got for me? This is dreck.” 

“Look at you, being picky,” Potter’s lips lifted. “Would you like to try some muggle whiskey? Grey Goose is nice. I can almost swear by it.” 

“Grey Goose is vodka, mate,” supplied the barman. “You keep mixing them up.” 

Draco laughed. He laughed because all of this was pretty much absurd. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Just. All this. I’m practically a muggle,” said Draco. 

“It’s not so bad, is it?” Potter turned his back towards the bar. “...Actually, hold the vodka. I’ve got something better.”

 

The next morning Draco dragged himself downstairs and took in the smell of muggle coffee. Potter loved this stuff, or so it seemed, and chugged it down at nearly alarming volumes. This time, he was contending with a headache that wasn’t so unfamiliar. In the few days he’d been here, he’d learned Potter’s schedule. Enough to know that it was out of the ordinary for Potter to still be home after the clock struck eight. The man was hunched over the kitchen island looking like he’d rather be dead. 

“All right?” Draco said.

“Not great,” said Potter. “I’ve called in sick. Coffee’s there if you’d want some.” 

“Serves you right for making me drink a, what’s-it?”

“Jaegerbomb,” Potter said. “I was introduced to them at Hermione’s wedding. It’s the thing about them, you know? Always a good idea at the time.” 

Draco was also learning his way around Potter’s kitchen. He’d made the acquaintance of Chef Mike, which sometimes gave muggles cancer. Potter’s response to this particular hazard was to set off the microwave at a distance, usually poking the thing with his wand and then ducking behind the pull-out shelves of the pantry. 

“...Do you want some eggs?” 

“I would love some eggs,” said Potter. “If you take of those I’ll toast some bread.” 

Draco went to the fridge and cracked a couple of eggs on the edge of a heavy-bottomed pan and the gas stove sprang to life. The yolks cackled and pinged off the edge of his headache. He could hear Potter crawling with some effort towards the breadbox. For someone who didn’t cook, Potter kept a very neat kitchen, but maybe that was precisely why. 

Draco kept his eyes squarely on the yolks. It made his head spin less, “What kind of wards are on this place?”

“...Sorry?” 

“Wards,” Draco said again and reached for a spatula. It wasn’t the first time he’d served Potter eggs and the man never did seem to scarf them down as easily when they were a touch runny. When Potter presented him with two plates of toast, Draco put his own eggs on first, and then scraped Potter’s eggs on second. “You said something to Aldous about wards not affecting whatever it is I’m dealing with.” He knew what an allergy was, and of course he knew now the pain of his affliction, but calling it an allergy just seemed altogether tawdry. 

Potter looked at the eggs and turned slightly green, but Draco was pretty sure it wasn’t the eggs. 

“...You’ve been to the cupboard, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Draco said, because he saw no reason to lie. He’d snuck down to look at the cupboard his first day while Potter had been out getting his things from the Manor. The cupboard was crammed with muggle paraphernalia and then things that he more readily recognized like a bucket and a broom, but not a magical broom. 

“I lived in that cupboard for eleven years,” said Potter. “Sometimes, I think I still get the urge to crawl in there. Dumbledore said --” and here, he swallowed. “That even though the Dursleys hated me, my mother loved me in this house. And no harm would ever come to me, here.” 

Draco said, “Oh.” 

“It doesn’t apply to you, though, so...you'll be fine.” Potter gingerly poked his eggs with a fork. 

Draco had to roll his eyes, “I gathered that. Eat your eggs, they’ll get cold.”

 

In the grand scheme of things, Harry often revisited the first time he’d set eyes on Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley. The boy had always been pale, pointy, ratlike, wearing the Malfoy name like it was the only thing he had. In a sense, maybe it had been. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa Malfoy seemed particularly capable of treating Draco as anything but a vessel for the family blood and all the prestige that came with it. Though maybe Narcissa had saved her son, in the end when it’d really counted. 

At Hogwarts, that sense of distance had amplified tenfold. And yet here Malfoy was now, here in Privet Drive, scurrying around the place like a sleepless rodent. He’d asked after his wand exactly once since they’d left the Ministry building. 

Which was perhaps surprising, but then again not. 

Harry reached for the living room light and there was a bit of a surprised yelp and then a thump. 

“Christ, Malfoy.” 

“Potter, it’s three in the morning.” 

Harry glanced at the clock mounted on the mantelpiece, “So it is. But I gave you a room. With clean sheets.” 

Malfoy, looking neatly tousled in striped pajamas, ran a hand through his hair after he’d heaved himself up on the couch again. “It’s not you. I don’t like beds. Or bedrooms. I don’t sleep well. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’ve caught this allergy because I overdo it on the sleeping potions. -- I am allowed to brew them.” 

“...I didn’t say you weren’t.” 

To this, Malfoy said nothing. 

Harry crossed over to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He remembered the portrait telling him that Malfoy preferred sleeping in his study. Harry had the vague notion of renovating the main bedroom into a study but so far, hadn’t got around to it. 

“Maybe,” Harry said. “It’s been suggested that if you cram your body too full of magic, there’s only so much that your body can take. Build up a tolerance, say. There’s also been other suggestions, but for a whole host of complicated reasons they’re less popular. Say, because it requires personal responsibility. Like Magic PTSD.” 

“Like what?” Malfoy blinked sleepily. 

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” said Harry. “We’ve been through a war, you know. A bloody big one. Fancy way of saying that muggles feel ghosts too without seeing them, I guess, sort of.” 

“You don’t say,” Malfoy gave him a look. “...Is this another muggle thing? This...PTSD.” 

“I think it’s a people thing,” said Harry. “The muggles have been through wars too, you know. In some ways, worse than the ones we’ve got.” Harry was, he had to admit, never much for history. And yet the horrors of the Two Great Wars had recently brought him a sense of comfort, as he was reading about them. There were people who hadn’t forgotten. They hadn’t ghosts or moving portraits to remind them, but they’d remembered anyway. 

“...What really impressed me is that they all seem to remember,” the kettle gave a telling whistle and Harry was glad for the excuse to get up again. 

“You think? I sometimes think about how my life would be like. If I could forget. But I remember,” said Malfoy, without looking at him. 

Harry remembered that Malfoy took no milk in his tea but he liked sugar. It wasn’t something that he would have guessed, but what he would hazard to guess was that some things about himself that probably surprised Malfoy, too.

"Don't suppose you want a biscuit or anything."

"At three in the morning?" Even without looking over at Malfoy, Harry could picture quite clearly the incredulous look he was likely wearing.

"Why not? There are no rules in this house. You do what you'd like," Harry grabbed the designated tin from the pantry and set in in front of the man before he could convince himself it was a bad idea. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

"Thanks," said Malfoy and Harry saw him thinking about it too, before reaching for the tin.

Harry took his own cup upstairs after that, and began to feel less alone. 

 

One day, before Potter went to work, he’d handed Draco a piece of paper he called an “appointment slip” and asked that he show up at a certain address in Covent Garden at the stated time. So Draco schlepped into London by way of a muggle train and found the address, a tall glass building. 

“...I’ve got this?” Draco handed over the slip, feeling very much like the cactus that sat next to Potter’s toaster, which was to say out of place. 

“If you could have a seat. Dr. duMaurier will be right with you.” 

Draco was also in muggle clothing. The trousers were a bit short but Potter had assured him that they could go shopping for clothes that actually fit him if he’d like. Draco pulled at the button on his cuff listlessly before a woman appeared. Everything about her was a touch severe, but when she smiled, there was something in Draco that recognized. “You must be Malfoy. Please, come through. Have a seat.”

Draco followed her into her office, a monochrome space with a desk, surprisingly comfortable looking chairs and a framed diploma of some kind. 

“...Do you mind if I call you Draco? It’s quite an unusual name,” said the woman, Dr. duMaurier. 

“Yes, well,” Draco smiled thinly. “I mean, no. I don’t mind. But I’m feeling a bit ambushed.” 

“That’s understandable,” said Dr. duMaurier. “Sometimes, Harry has good intentions. But that’s the thing about intentions, especially good ones. He doesn’t always think them through.” 

“I gather he’s talked about me, then?” 

The woman nodded, “He’d asked my advice about offering you a place to live. After your...he called it an accident.” 

“I had -- have an allergy,” Draco said. “But I appreciate Potter trying to save my pride. If you know about that, that means you must know about --” 

“About magic?" Dr. duMaurier arched one eyebrow, "Yes. My nephew just got his Hogwarts letter. But of course I can’t say anything about Harry Potter coming to see me. Nor am I allowed to disclose anything that we talk about today, to him, even if he asks and threatens to turn me into something unnatural. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Draco nodded. And then, “Does he do that? Threaten to turn you into something unnatural? You can run him in for improper use. You know. I hated Potter at school.” 

“He might have mentioned,” said Dr. duMaurier. "But no, he hasn't. Except once, I think he was joking."

“But that was a very long time ago,” said Draco. “Longer, I suppose, because of the War. That’s the thing about the War. It makes everything absurd and absurdly past. And yet you can’t help but remember it. Again and again. I don’t even remember why I hate him. That sort of thing used to be the most important thing to me in the world. See? Absurd.” 

Dr. duMaurier said nothing. 

Draco stared down at his hands, “I thought I’d miss magic, more. But I think I don’t. So you can report back to Potter that I’m not crazy.” 

“For the record,” she said, “Harry doesn’t think you’re crazy. He just thinks you need time.” 

Something constricted in Draco’s throat, and he had to ask for a glass of water.

"Are you all right?" Dr. duMaurier peered at him with some concern when she handed over a glass.

"I often wonder about that. If I am," Draco admitted and closed his eyes for a long moment before he opened them again. Dr. duMaurier's window boasted a great view of the city, and Draco spotted a little girl running towards her mother while clutching a bright red balloon. The balloon then floated away from the girl and Draco watched too, as the red balloon floated out of his line of sight. "I think I will be."

 

Healer Brockhurst was the one that handed Draco back his wand. Draco suddenly felt the urge to sneeze and rubbed his nose. But at least, there was no pain. 

“Slowly. Just a swish.” 

Draco swished. 

His wand emitted nothing and they all stared at it. 

“Sometimes, it takes a few goes,” Potter said helpfully. “Try it again.” 

Draco did, and again, nothing happened. 

 

Around his tenth try, Draco asked for a moment to himself out in the corridor. He willed himself to feel some measure of pain, even some measure of anxiety that seemed so familiar to him now. But there wasn’t anything, like his still stick of a wand. 

“Malfoy?” 

Potter’s voice sounded near his ear and Draco turned. 

“I thought you’d be losing it out here,” Potter said, a little hesitantly. “You all right?” 

“Me too,” Draco admitted. “Does that mean I’m a squib for life, now?” Where the sentiment once would have filled his entire body with dread and intimate terror, he nearly felt fine. 

“I don’t know what it means,” said Potter. “I’m still in training. I do know that it -- erm, happens sometimes. But I’m sorry. It could come back. Maybe you just -- you need more time.” 

“I’m not,” Draco said. “It means I’ve got time now. Time to do anything I want.” 

“So long as you still cook me eggs,” said Potter with a feeling squeeze to Draco’s elbow. Draco thought he knew what Potter meant. 

“That’s nearly at the top of my list,” Draco said, and they both laughed.


End file.
